Disquiet stills amongst the Ghosts beneath the Tree; Their dead eyes staring up into the sky, devoid of lightSlaves in their violent veracity, alone in their silence They whisper,“Behold a reverie born from the ashes of a maiden’s vesper: Blinded by autumns grace he falls, and because of this, comes closer.”Surrounded by the essence of Her and beseeched by pain The frail tide rises giving life to the Willow and from Beneath his thoughts will this unfold, an unequivocal sorrow: “Look upon the eyes of the one resting there! Behold the transgressions of his heart! Behold the beauty of that which he desires! And from this tide the Willow grows.”{Sadness as rain, breathing out the mist of a cold winter morning Exhaling as fog from a Ghostly visage of bitter frost and Mourning eyes.} They whisper:

“His skin grays and peels away, spirit broken for what he becameShe reaches her hand towards the place he was slain Praying that within him some life still remains.”

And their sonorous incantation reaches the heavens.The shadow in the ever-lightening sky of dawn The sun crests, the moon dies; the shadow withers and The light shines.Behold the wisdom cast from so many days he there hung.

Good lord, what possessed you to write that? You do know it is something only a few will get.
What a very unusual style. I always say that poets are depressing but you have taken on a sort of hybrid of sorrow. It is like a story in a way, like the first chapter to something very unusual. Well done lad.